The Shield of Weeping Ghosts Read Online Free PDF Page A

the ruins, issuing from the doors of hollow buildings, moaning with the wind as they slowly trailed away. Bastun strained to hear the nuances of the spirits’ cries, sensing some missing note in the rhythm.
    The cries drifted north, growing fainter, and many held breaths were quietly exhaled as Thaena waved the fang onward.
    Bastun caught himself looking left and right, his eyes darting at every imagined movement. Shadows lengthened and disappeared as the torches passed, surrounding them with phantom enemies. The faces of fantastic beasts leered from stone columns, given life in the flickering flames to taunt those intruding upon Shandaular’s lingering misery.
    Several warriors reached into pouches at their belts to pull out pinches of soil which they kissed and sprinkled on the snow as they passed. Bastun imagined these offerings to Shandaular’s spirits might not be well-accepted in a place so far from Rashemen, but the effort was a testament to the fang’s respect for the dead. Even so, more than a few rubbed the flat of their blades with the remaining soil on their palms, a request for strength against evil and a preparation for fighting those dead who would not so respect the living.
    Duras moved closer to Thaena, leaning his tall frame to reach her ear.
    “Have you attempted to contact the Shield’s hathran?” he whispered just loud enough for Bastun to hear. She nodded, her eyes never leaving the path ahead.
    “Only silence greets me,” she answered, then held up her hand to signal the location of yet another obelisk. Kneeling, she studied the ash and markings defacing its warding sigil. Bastun edged closer to observe the mark himself. Thaena started as he approached but allowed him to continue. He heard her whisper a quiet spell, attempting once again to summon any magic left in the stone, but she shook her head afterwards, finding nothing.
    “It’s the same each time, as if the magic were drained,” she said. She stepped back as Bastun kneeled closer.
    Narrowing his eyes he studied the ashes, disturbed by the wind and smeared across the original marking. Removing one glove he felt the smooth stone, feeling the slight imperfections caused by some powerful strike, likely with a sharp stone or edged weapon. Touching the sigil with his fingertips he stained them with the ashes and rubbed them between his thumb and index finger. Raising them to his mask he sniffed them, two small holes in the mask allowing him room to breath.
    “The ashes are moist—some form of oil—and they smell of brimstone,” he said, tilting his head and pondering the mystery.
    “This means something to you?” Thaena asked.
    “Possibly. Perhaps we may find one with the ashes in a more discernable shape to study.”
    Thaena nodded and gestured for him to rejoin the formation. As the group moved on, Bastun sniffed his fingertips again, still feeling the oily moisture clinging to them, and noted that they did not frost despite the cold. Different oils could be used in several spells he was aware of, but the odor of the brimstone dominated this one’s scent. The combination nagged at his memory, and he looked forward to the next obelisk as the path wound northward around a rubble-filled mound of destroyed buildings.
    The song of the rusalka, the dream-like lyrics of the Firedawn Cycle, played in his mind over and over again. The power in the Cycle had been born in an age when the wychlaren were few. It carried the legacy of Raumathar into a new era. Because of it, most knew of the battle that had destroyed Shandaular, of the Nentyarch’s desire for the city’s portal. Few pondered why the Shield remained standing or why the city’s cursed spirits refused to go near the fortress— except the vremyonni. He hoped that those vremyonni secrets had remained safe and well-hidden for Rashemen’s sake.
    On the northern end of their path around the wall of rubble, Thaena signaled the place of another obelisk. This time she waved Bastun along